Raven of the North
by Charmtion
Summary: A tale of the Starks and Winterfell through the eyes of Adela Stark, daughter of Benjen, lost beyond the Wall. Chronology does not match exactly to that of the books.
1. The Godswood

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It is late and the moon is glimmering listlessly when Adela leaves her chamber, closing the door quietly so the guardsmen are not suspicious, and winding down the narrow staircase of Winterfell's northern tower. She drifts on bare feet a trail now so familiar to her, and ducks behind a thick blue-spotted tapestry adorning the rough stone wall as a guard strolls past with his pike. He does not see her feet; he is barely awake, lulled into a wine-fuelled stupor. Counting his footsteps as he ascends wearily, she exhales and emerges from the tapestry's sheltering warmth, and steps out of the ajar door at the foot of the tower, pulling her cloak tighter round her face, making her way across the narrow cobbled yard before her, and heading to the south of Winterfell, into the godswood. Now and then her ears prick at the howls of the direwolves out hunting in the wolfwood beyond the castle walls, their laments echoing across the cold stones and air.

The godswood is deserted by both man and beast as her soft feet mark the frosty leaves littering the earth. Her cloak snaps about her as a sudden gust of wind picks up and hurls itself, and she draws the ends of the fur-lined cape quickly back to shelter her legs, white and bare to the knee in the icy night air. Summer heat never penetrates so far north in Westeros, not even at midday: of course every night is freezing. She presses on, and soon finds herself beside the smooth surface of the deep black pool and beside it the ghostly limbs of the white tree, red leaves adorning its ashen boughs. She sinks to her knees before the gnarled face, her cloak billowing about her, and closing her eyes she prays. To the gods, perhaps, or to the crueller fates of men.

"Child, you should not be out your bed," carries a quiet voice on the wind.

Gasping, she wrenches up to her feet and spins in a whirl of fine black hair and sable cloak. Her pounding heart quietens as she recognises the broad-shouldered figure of her uncle, his boots tramping gently towards her over the leaf-mould. He pauses just before her, his breath a grey haze on the frosty air.

"I came to pray," she replies to his questioning eyes.

"For your father?" His eyes grow sad.

She nods, a tear running silently down her cheek. She wipes it angrily away, and raises her chin up as if defiance to her own heart.

"He's listening, I am sure," answers her uncle softly. "Benjen Stark's the best listener I know. Better than my other brother. Could never get a word against Brandon's thunder. But your father?" His eyes soften. "He never once complained, he only aided. He would've of been a better lord than I, had he not upped to the Wall and donned the black."

"I only met him a handful of times," whispers Adela, her gaze growing absent as she looks up at the curling leaves. "My mother was always so full of joy when she told me tales of him, though. He was the most valiant knight in her eyes. I can remember him, well enough. A tall man, like you, always in black even before he swore an oath to the Watch. So sombre, so serious, but often his brooding face would split open for a moment and that beaming smile told me truths I had not dreamed – and I understood all my mother had told me then, when he smiled like that one could well imagine him to be the most evergreen knight, lofting sword and battleaxe and spinning round his horse to fight in a tourney or a masque – yet now he is beyond the Wall, in a place of ice and fire, a place from where no man comes back." She closes her eyes swiftly, halting her reveries, and does not fight when Eddard Stark holds out his arm and clasps her to his chest, his hand stroking her long black tresses as she's seen him do to Arya.

"Aye, no men come back from beyond the Wall," he says softly in reply. "But Benjen is not a simple man, he's got more heart and courage than anyone I know. He'll come back, little raven, I am sure of it. Until then, I will keep you safe, and my wife will raise you right and my sons and daughters will love you evermore, I promise." He feels how weary she is and lifts her lightly into his arms, beginning the slow walk back to the castle. "You're my blood, Addie Stark, always remember that. You are a wolf, and you will always have your pack."

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	2. The Lady and the Wolf

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"Have courage, they won't harm you," pipes Bran as he takes his cousin's hand within his own and tows her along behind him, his infectious joy making her smile. "They are still young – but have grown big. It's a shame there are only six, else you could have had your very own."

"My very own direwolf?" quips Adela, smiling still. "That would have spoiled me, little Bran, I think I'll take enough delight in watching you with yours."

"Yes," he agrees, nodding. "Summer is the best of the pack, you'll see. He's big and grey with golden eyes – "

"You forget how big Ghost is, Bran," calls Jon Snow from somewhere far behind them in the courtyard. Judging from the clash of steel interrupting his shout, he and Robb must be duelling, as is their morrow's custom.

"And Grey Wind!" rejoins Robb, his call ebbing into a flurry of sword.

"What of the girls' wolves?" asks Adela as they head through the final twists of courtyard and cobbled walkways, emerging out through the inner wall of the castle and turning toward the godswood nestled between the outer and curtain walls. "Arya's and Sansa's, what are they like?"

"Nymeria is Arya's wolf," replies Bran. "She's as stubborn and boyish as Arya." Adela cannot hide her smile. "And Lady is . . . delicate and pretty just as Sansa is." He shakes his head in dismissal. "But she's weak, more of a dog than a direwolf."

They walk in silence through the godswood and come to a halt before the great white tree. The leaves seem to whisper to her of her uncle's words the previous night. _His blood_, she muses, _and I am in his pack, _my_ pack now_. A pleasant thought, and a brief glimmer of joy surfaces in her heart.

"Remember they will not hurt you." Bran breaks her silent thought and releases her hand to turn and look at her. She puts her hands on her hips and smiles.

"Master Bran, I can sew and sing and smile – and I can wield a sword and bow and mace just as well as your brothers. I have fought many beasts and bears in my northern home of Stratheart." She taps his nose. "I am not afraid of your wolves."

He grins delightedly and raises his fingers to his lips. His whistle rings sharply through the still trees and after a while the eerie echo of a wolf responds. His smile changes to one of excitement and soon there is a dim rustling from the shrubs left of them, and suddenly a huge direwolf bursts out, weak sunshine glinting off its light grey fur and illuminating eyes as sharp and clear as gold coin. It bounds toward them and presses Bran to the ground with one lofty paw to his chest, showering the boy's face with its tongue.

"Summer?" asks Adela to the boy in the leaf-mould. Bran nods and struggles to his feet. The grey direwolf pads lightly around her skirts, sniffing at her through the silk and finally he rubs his head tentatively against her thigh. She lowers her hand at Bran's nod and gently caresses the soft fur between the wolf's eyes.

"He likes you, see?" says Bran triumphantly, as the wolf gives a deep sound something like a purr. "He doesn't normally let people touch his head." He makes another whistle, and finally the bushes shudder again and in order of size Grey Wind, Shaggydog, Nymeria and Lady rush over to join their brother. Summer growls at them, head still rested on Charmeia's leg as she continues to stroke him. She counts them silently.

"Rickon's is here, and Robb's, Sansa's and Arya's," she says softly. "But where is Jon's wolf? Ghost, isn't it?" She looks about her, and sees nothing.

"He's over there, you see?" Bran motions to the line of trees behind the row of shrubs the other wolves ran from. "He's like Jon, a lone wolf, very self-sufficient. He doesn't join in with the other wolves most of the time." Bran's voice is softer now, and his eyes are dark. "I think he's so angry he's sad."

"Is he vicious?" asks Adela. "Will he bite me if I go to him?"

"No," murmurs the boy. "He'll likely run off – but he'd never hurt you." He calls Summer to him, and the large grey wolf reluctantly obeys.

Adela approaches the gnarled twists of the trees, and the white direwolf pacing amongst them looms up as she nears, a great bloom of moonlight hidden in the sun of day. His eyes are almost red in their depth, and they follow her anxiously as she approaches, his great paws striking the beaten earth as he walks to and fro. He has the same quiet look of his owner, and Bran's words ring through her head as she stops before him. _He's so angry he's sad_. The great direwolf is taller than the others, even the black shadowy Shaggy, yet he is timid, too, just as Sansa's silky bitch is. She stretches out her hand, fingers uncurling slowly, and the white wolf lowers his muzzle in question almost, his great red eyes seeking hers. She feels extraordinary courage as she dips to her knees and extends her hand further, her eyes level with this huge hunter. The beast makes no move only continues to stare at her, almost in puzzlement.

Far off from the scene between the lady and the wolf, Robb and Jon clatter noisily into the clearing beside Bran and his mill of wolves. Bran does not raise his eyes to acknowledge him and Grey Wind barely nuzzles Robb as he greets him.

"What's the matter?" he asks, both to his wolf and his brother. Bran makes no reply. "And where is – "

"Hush!" says the little boy sharply. And in answer to his question, points toward the trees behind the shrubs.

Jon turns his gaze too and sucks in his breath at the sight of Adela knelt before his great white direwolf, whose eyes are burning brightly into hers. As he watches, Ghost finally takes a step forward and sits on his haunches a hand's width from the girl, feathering her outstretched hand with a single pink lick. Jon feels the touch like a jolt through his heart and almost staggers back at the force of it.

In the distant gloom of the godswood, Adela raises her head slowly and looks toward Jon. Their eyes meet almost at once, their stare potent and full of fire. Another jolt. Jon staggers back this time.

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	3. Bastards

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The land is deserted, desolate, half-hidden beneath the snow. The hedgelines of a few distant fields rise on the hills and the sound of a river fills the air but the sun is cold, the earth colder. Adela's breath mists as she stands on the brow of a hill, her horse shifting restlessly beneath her. To her left the great dense mass of the wolfwood beckons. To her right, nothing. Endless, endless space. A pretty, deadly white void awaiting her entrance placidly.

"What is it?" comes a fractured voice suddenly.

She starts terribly, yanking her horse in the mouth in shock and spinning around in the direction of the voice. She sees nothing, only the crisp outline of the hill sloping against the rising sun. She hears nothing now. No whisper of breath, no thudding footstep, no laugh or call or cry. Glancing uncertainly about herself now, she turns the horse this way and that, cresting the ridge of the hill and standing up in her stirrups to squint into the sunlight and try to spot any movement on the horizon. Nothing. She sits back into the saddle quietly, frowning. _This far south of the Wall there is nothing to fear_, she tells herself, but her heart is pounding and her breath quickens, the blood rushing to her cheeks as she feels the thinnest trail of panic cloud her veins. Perhaps she had been rash taking her horse from the stables at Winterfell and riding out before sunrise without companion or word. Yet the prospect of another day preparing for the king's arrival and gritting her teeth to Catelyn Stark's barked orders overrode that rashness. She sits wondering for a while, thinking back to playing with Sansa when they were both girls as high as old Ned's knee, long before she'd been sent off to live back with her mother. Then she thinks of dark eyes, liquid in the gloom of the godswood, and feels heat rise to her cheeks.

She turns from her reveries, finally, and turns too from the prospect of losing herself for a while in the white abyss before her. _To Winterfell, to Winterfell_... She turns the horse and screams with shock.

Red eyes, fierce and burning, are locked on hers. They seem to float in the blinding white air, the breeze throwing snowflakes around them and obscuring their owner. She can see nothing else as the snow picks up with the wind but those eyes grow larger, fiercer. Blood-red and wanting. The panic she has barely suppressed begins to rise again. _No sword, no arrow, not even a dagger, leagues and leagues away from Winterfell_. She wants desperately to stand her ground but the horse below her shifts and starts and paws, backing up and tripping along in the snow. She pushes it to stand but it bolts and races down the hill, hurtling at a gallop toward the blankness of the horizon she'd so admired earlier. She tries to pull up but the horse rips the reins from her hands and ploughs on, hock-deep in snow but showing no sign of struggling.

As she fights for control, she hears the crack of that voice on the air again but when she turns her head the snow stings her eyes and blinds her. The cold is vicious now and her ears and cheeks burn as the wind tears her hair from its pins and whips the tendrils across her face, blinding her even more. She wonders miserably how far she is from Winterfell, and how she's ever going to find her way back.

Finally the horse begins to tire beneath her, the great knees slowing now as they fight to cut through the snow. She can hear the rasp of its nostrils, smell the deep, primal scent of its sweat. The horse stops as suddenly as it ran. She drops the reins and falls onto its neck, exhausted, her fur cloak heavy on her shoulders and crusted with snow.

"Adela?" comes that voice, deep and smooth.

She starts up, her breath coming fast, and looks over her shoulder.

"Jon Snow." Her voice is a whisper. Mounted on his dark stallion, dressed in black, with his wolf at his horse's hooves. _Ghost_. "How did . . . it was you . . . it was Ghost!" Relief makes her dizzy and her face parts in a smile.

"Yes," says Jon, his eyebrows raised. "I did call out. Ghost went on ahead, think he was eager to get to you." He walks his horse forward till he is next to her. "When I climbed the hill you'd gone."

"How'd you know where I went?" she questions. "The snow is blinding."

"Followed your squeals," he grins. She scowls, but his smile doesn't falter. "That's what the knight's supposed to do, isn't it? Rescue the damsel whose lost control of her mount?"

She sees the laughter shining in his dark eyes and wants to be angry at him but she laughs too. "I never once lost control."

"No, no," he shakes his head, full of mirth. "Of course not. It is the custom of the north to gallop headlong through snowdrifts, I forget."

She smiles. "Who sent you after me?"

"Who do you think?"

"Lady Stark."

"The lady herself," he nods. "Though of course she instructed Father to tell me, rather than tell me herself."

Adela shakes her head at that with a sigh, and they both begin a slow walk back toward Winterfell. The horses are tired and grateful for the pace but Ghost bounds off ahead, silently mounting the hills and disappearing from sight. They ride a while in silence, eyes fixed ahead, the snowfall ceasing now and coldness and quiet taking over once more.

"She's never liked me either," murmurs Adela finally. "Even as a child, she never liked me being Sansa's playmate. Would of sent me off much sooner, I think, had it not been for Ned's insistence that I stayed."

Jon nods at this. "She's a hard woman," he says carefully. "When I was young I wanted nothing more than to please her. The older I got, the more I realised that was never going to happen. Never will. Gave up. Realised that as she's never bothered to please me, nor even notice that I exist, I've no reason to do the same for her."

He says it calmly, his voice level and cool, but she sees the hurt in his eyes. _Dark, dark eyes_. Her hand lifts from the rein to take his in comfort but she stops herself. Her fingers curl tightly back around the leather and she fixes her eyes back onto the horizon.

"A mother's love is hard to earn when it is not given freely," she says distantly, closing her eyes to the memories of her own mother.

"You talk as if you understand such things," he says, his voice bearing a harder tone now. "Yet you've known your mother, shared her home for the past five years. You know her face, her scent, what her hands look like. You know whether she lives or not."

"And how I long to rid my mind of all those things," hisses Adela before she can help it. She sees his look of disgust and does not flinch from it. "And you, Jon Snow? What do you understand about your mother?"

"Nothing," he snaps. "I know nothing about her. I don't know if she is a fishwife or a noble lady of the southern lands. I don't know what her name is, or what she looks like. I don't know if she lives or dies. Where does she rise in the mornings? What place does she call home?" His angry breath mists the air. "Would she shrink to see me now? Would she be proud? I know nothing, Adela Snow, nothing."

"Don't call me that!" she cries, her voice breaking with anger.

"Call you what?" he shouts back, whirling his horse to face her. His dark eyes are damp but the anger furrows his brow and his cheeks are pink. "Snow? That is what you are, Adela, though everyone else keeps pretending you are not!"

"I am not a Snow," she says hotly. "My father wanted me known as a Stark – and it is _his_ blood I carry, hot and heavier in my veins than my mother's!"

He looks at her with something like pity then and shakes his head. Their eyes meet, softly, and she feels his heart tear within her own. "You are what I am," he says, his voice quieter now. "You are a Snow. You are a – "

"Bastard."

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	4. Snow

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Hours they have been sat at the trestle tables before the king's high table. The great hall is alive with the distant beat of drum, with laughter, howls, shouts and cries. She has never known Winterfell so alive. Plates and plates of food are brought forth: lark's tongue, pears in wine and cream, nuts and leaves from the Reach, boar's head, lamprey pie, hardbread, then pastries, more cream, and sweetwine, sweetbreads, fruit, and honeywine after the cheese has been cleared. Adela watches the high table from halfway down the hall, picking her bread to crumbs.

King Robert, the first of his name. Black-bearded, strong arms, a laugh to envy a giant's. A mammoth of a man, muscles fast run to fat, hot and uncomfortable in the red-gold doublet he wears, beads of sweat straining on his forehead. _A happy man, though_, muses Adela, _a good man_. She turns away from the scene of merriment and sighs back into her seat. Ned had wanted her at the high table, just as he'd wanted Jon Snow there. One word from Lady Catelyn had washed that thought away. Adela looks back to the table suddenly, she can't help herself, and she feels hot anger flooding her chest as she watches Catelyn remember all her southern ways in strained conversation with the queen. _One day_, she thinks hotly, _one day Catelyn Tully you will realise just how wrong you have been_.

She pushes away from the table then, leaving her ruined food untouched, and walks from the hall as calmly as she can, her fists clenched at her sides, the silly gown billowing behind her. Another one of Catelyn's commands. She snatches at her skirts to quell their movement, her face now set like a petulant child as she storms from this child-like rage that inhabits her. _Ridiculous, you're being ridiculous_, she wants to scream at herself. But the tangible feeling of injustice done to her and Jon erupts within her and she pushes through the doors of the great hall and into the snow-swept courtyard. She stops. Here, at last, it is silent. She closes her eyes and breathes deep air that is so cold it pierces her lungs like knives. Gradually the hum of noise from the great hall behind her becomes drowned to the silence of night, and then the distant sound of howling from the godswood. At last, Winterfell begins to sound like home again.

"You've escaped, too?" comes that voice, deep but gruff tonight. She recognises it in an instant and her heart beats faster for a moment.

"I managed a few hours," she replies, opening her eyes.

"You're a stronger warrior than me," says Jon Snow, coming toward her. His hair is crusted with fallen snow, as are his shoulders. His hands are pink from the cold. "I lasted less than an hour."

"You look cold," she says, almost stupidly.

"I am," he replies, nonchalantly. He looks off up into the deep blue sky of night, before turning his eyes to the courtyard again. He smiles. "Ser Rodrik's left the practice swords out . . . want to duel?" His eyes are alight with humour and something else. She notices for the first time the shape of his lips below his shadow of a beard, the arch they have. And those eyes. _Dark, dark eyes_. "Adela?"

"Yes," she says, stepping briskly from her thoughts. "Though I haven't touched a sword in months. Lady Stark's orders."

"You'll remember," he says, handing her a sword and keeping one for himself.

"First blood?" she asks, testing her footing on the snowy cobblestones as she hefts the weight of the sword.

"You'd cut me?" he asks in mock horror, staggering back.

Laughter fresh in their throats, their swords meet with a clang.

They fight for what feels like hours, but what must in fact be minutes. She moves through the motions of swordplay like a dance, stepping and parrying and delivering blow after blow against him. She watches the concentration on his face deepen, his brows knit together, his teeth clenching just slightly. Observes the exact dip and sway of his shoulders as he steps deftly around her. The way the moonlight plays on his dark hair and obsidian eyes. She learns something then, something she'll keep buried deep within. _We _are_ the same . . . not just in name but in heart, in mind_. The realisation hits her like a sword cut to the chest and she gasps, stepping back from it. She slips on the icy cobbles, tripping over those foolish skirts, and lands heavily onto the snowy ground, her head cracking against the stone, the sword fleeing from her grasp and clanging as it falls.

"Adela!" she hears him shout.

The world is a pleasant haze of white warmth as the snow falls, no longer stinging her face with its icy kiss. She looks up at the sky, her eyes reflecting the spangle of stars studding its depth. Her face parts in a smile, her mind swimming with some distant pain. Suddenly he is there, knelt beside her, his face looming huge above hers. There is worry in his eyes, concern shaping his lips. _Those lips _. . . He lifts her off of the ground and rests her back against his knees. Suddenly her head clears as he tries to soothe her. She sees only him. Only him in this world of grief and rage and turmoil. The only one in this family brave enough to question her grief, and in doing so quell her rage and reset the volatility.

"It's just us, isn't it?" her voice asks suddenly, quiet and unsure.

"Just us?" he murmurs, stroking the hair back from her face.

"It's only you and me," she says, her voice cracking. "Just you and me alone in this world with any understanding of each other. The others try, they really do. But they . . . they can't. They can't possibly know who I am, or who you are." She sits up, her head smarting with pain but becoming overrun with stronger emotions. She levels her face with his. "You . . . you _know_ me, you know me more than years allow. And I know you, Jon Snow, I know you." Her hand rises tentatively and slowly comes to rest on his cheek, feeling the softness of his beard below her palm. "I know you, Jon Snow."

She sees all the rage and hurt and sadness disappear from his eyes then, those black bottomless pools, and they become like great purple flowers bursting in the darkness. He kisses her. She can see it happening but still it shocks her. His mouth warm on hers, asking, silently asking. She gives, she gives it all, wordlessly. Her arms rise to go about his neck, her mouth opens on his, and she takes him, wholly, all his anguish and uncertainty, into herself. And suddenly it is all too much and she breaks from the kiss, crying uncontrollably, and he opens his arms to her, tears shining in his gaze too, and grips her tight to him as she buries her face into his shoulder.

"What now?" she whispers breathlessly from his shoulder, her body racked with sobs.

"I don't know," says Jon Snow, looking off into the night. "I don't know."

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	5. The Old Gods

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Winterfell is deserted at this hour. Nothing stirs, nothing starts, nothing sounds. Silence greets Adela as she leaves her chamber, her feet deft and hopping down the stone steps two at a time. All night she has lain awake, her mind a myriad of thoughts and feelings, of conflict and indecision. The moon rose and rose and fell again as she lay wondering and before cold dawn had broken she knew her heart. She skips down the last few steps, breathless and pink-cheeked already, and emerges from the tower out into the courtyard, the cobbles smooth and frozen beneath her bare feet. The shawl flaps behind her as she runs, and she grips it tight to her shoulders as she continues to cut a path through the thin crust of frost carpeting the alley between the inner and outer walls.

She reaches the godswood at last as the pre-dawn light begins to illuminate the turrets and stones behind her. She closes her eyes to the silence, tipping back her head and hearing only the faintest whispers of the wind. The soil is frozen beneath her feet, the few fallen leaves brittle crimson shapes murmuring lowly as the wind passes over them. She opens her eyes after what feels like an eternity of silence and makes her way through the godswood until she reaches the glossy black depths of the pool and the white tree that shelters it. As she kneels before the now familiar face of the tree, she remembers her first moonlit visit to this sacred grove when she arrived at Winterfell those months ago. She remembers the primeval belonging she felt to this place and feels it swell within her now as she looks before her to the gnarled bark of the tree and listens to the soft whisper of the wind. At last she feels at home, at last she feels a place to belong.

"Please hear me," she whispers to the Old Gods, closing her eyes. "I swear to do my duty as a Stark or a Snow, to serve this family, to die for this family, as you see fit." Her voice trembles with her breath. "I swear to watch over Sansa when we travel to the south, to serve her and to guide her and to do as she bids. I will strive to remain indifferent to the ways of the south, to stay away from the lust and depravity of their court, and to be wary always of the family that rules there." The wind begins to pull gently at her hair now. "Whatever test you grant me, whatever hardship you force me to face, I will conquer it with only love and duty as my weapons." She hears the leaves above and below her being whipped into frenzy as the wind continues its dance around her. "For these promises I ask only one thing in return . . . keep him safe." A tear winds down her cheek from beneath her closed eyes. "Keep him safe, please. I know not where life will take him, what paths he will tread, what men he will fight against. I know only that those dark eyes hold secrets none of us can know, not yet, and that he will need all his strength when the time for knowing comes." Her voice drops lower as the winds whine. "Before you, Old Gods of the Forest, I give my oath to honour my duty to this noble family and ask you again . . . keep him safe."

She opens her eyes as the wind suddenly ceases and falls and silence reclaims the godswood once more. She watches the gnarled face of the weirwood tree as the first stray shafts of sunlight pierce through the trees and illuminate the pale bark. She sits back on her heels, her hands still clasped, her eyes turning from the tree to her reflection in the unmoving surface of the black pool. Her face stares back at her, pale and unsure, unruly dark hair falling forward and framing troubled blue eyes. Her hand extends, her fingers lowering to touch the surface of the pool and trace her reflection. She snatches her hand back as she hears a howl go up from the grey stone of Winterfell behind her. The howl is frantic and torn, and sounds again and again. Soon the other direwolves join and a great chorus of melancholy echoes throughout the grove and beyond.

Adela starts up and runs, tripping over protruding roots and grazing her feet in her haste to find the cause of the howls. She emerges from the godswood and runs as fast as she can through the gates and courtyard. The howling starts up again with renewed ferocity. She halts, breathing hard, and feels her heart drop to her stomach as Hodor steps from behind the half-crumbling wall flanking the north tower carrying a limp child's body in his arms. Summer winds about Hodor's ankles, howling pitifully.

"Bran!" cries Adela, starting forward again. Hodor stops when he sees her, clutching Bran tight to his chest. She fumbles at the child's neck, pressing her fingers tight to his throat. _Come on_, she thinks, _come _on_, Bran_. She feels his weak pulse against her fingers and breathes relief. "Oh, he's alive, gods be praised, he's alive."

Through the drumming of her own ears, she soon becomes aware of commotion behind her and of first the maids running over, then Ser Rodrik, and finally Ned. They carry him away to Catelyn and Maester Luwin and tell Adela to gather some herbs from the grounds. She stands for a moment in the courtyard watching Bran being borne away, his arms hanging down, swinging sadly like the broken wings of a little bird. She turns to follow the disjointed cobbled path leading around the crumbling wall to the abandoned tower a hundred steps or more from the courtyard. Amongst the frost and ice she finds a few sprigs of winter herbs whose seeds the maester can grind to relieve Bran of pain and ease his sleep. She continues her search around the abandoned tower, looking amongst the ruined stones at its base.

Finding nothing more, she gives up the search after an hour, clutching the small amount she's managed to forage tightly in her hand. She begins to walk the path back to the central courtyard when she hears a thread of voice on the wind. She stops instantly, frozen to the spot, her eyes surveying the empty grounds she stands in. She quietens her breath, closes her eyes, and her hearing sharpens to catch the voice again. This time it is higher up. Her eyes snap open and dart to the top of the tower. At the cracked glass, she thinks she sees the ghost of a face pass quickly before it. She picks up her skirts in her free hand and runs to the tumblestone archway leading into the tower, leaps the winding steps two at a time and emerges breathless and winded into the main chamber of the tower.

It is empty, and as ruined as the exterior. The beams dip in, threatening to spill the roof upon the dusty flagstones underfoot, the ragged curtains at the ruined window stir pitifully in the small breeze. Adela steps carefully around the tower room, her footsteps quiet and measured. _Can I hear breath? A murmur of voice? _

Nothing, there is nothing. She comes to a stop before the cracked window and looks out through the ruined half-jagged glass. From here, Winterfell is an expanse of grey stone and turrets, gleaming white frost blinding her in the early light of the sun. She looks along the tufts and turrets of the castle, observes daily life beginning as it always does. The wolves have fallen silent at last but no birds take their place of song. Her eyes carry on their search until finally they come to a stop.

A man walks the walls of Winterfell. She is sure she has never seen him before, yet recognises him somehow. His armour is white, his woollen cloak the same pale hue. He is tall, broad-shouldered, handsome even at this distance. Golden hair, evergreen eyes that raise to stare at the ancient, ruined tower she stands at the peak of. She inhales sharply and steps back into the shadow of the window's arch. When she looks again he is gone, as if he were never there at all.

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	6. A Farewell

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Adela wakes as a cold dawn begins to glow through the shutters of the chamber. She lies still for a moment, afraid to move, afraid to disturb the silence of the world around her. The room is full of trunks, some shut and sealed, others half-packed and with dresses and cloaks spilling out the sides. Books have been pulled from the dusty shelves and stacked haphazardly either side of the door and jewellery and trinket boxes add to the overflowing mess of clothes and papers and shoes carpeting the flagstones. Adela's own room has been packed away and locked and so she shares Sansa's for their last week before the journey south. She looks down at Sansa still soundly sleeping beside her. Her cousin's mouth is swept up at one corner in a small smile. _Smiling in her sleep_, Adela thinks fondly, _news of her betrothal is sweet to one Stark at least_. She eases herself from the heaviness of the furs and blankets and bites back a gasp as dull pain starts at the base of her skull. _Two weeks_, she curses, _and still this hurt clouds my head_. Unbidden, memories of that snowy night begin to surface. She closes her eyes furiously, hoping to quell them, but they rise and fight to push through. The sting of snow through her dress, the dots of blood on the snow beside her head, a warm body against hers, dark eyes, and those lips, _those lips_ . . .

She wrenches herself up from the bed, breaking from the hundred images flooding her mind, her head hurting just as much as her heart, and she remembers with dread what day it is, realises why she has woken so early and afraid. She feels her throat tighten, her chest constrict, her ribs ache with the dull beat of her heart. Today Jon Snow rides to the Wall. _To a place of ice and fire_, she remembers wearily, _a place from where no man comes back_. She remembers too her oath before the weirwood in the godswood and can hope only that the Old Gods honour it. In a daze, she goes to the window and pulls back the shutters, a sad smile starting on her face as she watches Jon Snow make his way through the courtyard from the stables and disappear into the archway of the tower opposite her. _On his way to bid farewell to poor, sweet Bran_, she muses, _I can only hope Lady Stark will have some words of kindness . . . or none at all_. She forces herself from the window and sets fresh wood onto the fire, watches as the flames grow and flicker hungrily. Sparks loom up, red and hot as blood, and she kneels before the fire, her face burning from the heat of it, watching the ash from last night's blaze being swallowed up and breathed again as the flames spread within the hearth. She sees her father's face in the flames, glowing and twisted, orange-flamed and looming, his smile turning to despair.

"What are you doing down there, Addie?" comes Sansa's voice from the bed. "You'll catch fire and lose that beautiful head of hair if you stay like that."

She smiles into the flames now and turns back to her cousin. They dress to the sound of Sansa's chatting as she details what her wedding gown will look like, how the ceremony will be, how she cannot wait to feel the cloak of Joffrey's house rest upon her shoulders.

"You will look splendid," says Adela, brushing Sansa's hair before the looking glass.

"I can hardly wait," says Sansa. "But I have to wait months and months – and it is still weeks till I will see him next!" She sighs heavily. "It's so terribly unfair."

"Very unfair," agrees Adela on a monotone, beginning to plait the red-gold locks. "Will you say farewell to Jon?"

"Yes," sighs Sansa, fussing with her sleeves. "Father has requested it."

At this remark and the look of boredom in Sansa's eyes, Adela bites her tongue, but she keeps her smile. She fastens Sansa's plait and helps her up from the stool. They put on their cloaks and walk from the chamber, down the winding steps and into the cold air of the courtyard. The clang of steel rises as they close the heavy wood door behind them and turn to see Robb and Jon duelling with the practice swords. Adela listens to their laughter, their curses at each other, and feels her throat tighten again with sobs she coughs away angrily. The family have gathered to say goodbye and it is to them Adela and Sansa now walk.

"Hello, little one," murmurs Adela.

"I'm not little," says Arya, her voice angry but threatening tears, and when Adela holds out an arm Arya does not hesitate to lean against her, her hand finding her cousin's.

They watch the boys duel in silence; Ned brooding, his grey eyes searching the horizon absently, Arya sniffing angrily, Sansa looking down at her hands, her head full of a hundred dreams of marriage and queenhood, and Adela stands amongst them all, her heart quietly breaking. She lifts her eyes from the cobblestones beneath her feet as she hears the growing sound of hooves approaching the courtyard. Several horses emerge on their way to the gates, a few mounted guards, a black brother of the Watch, and the strange Lannister half-man, cocksure and grinning as always. A stableboy holds Jon Snow's dark horse and the company pull up to wait.

The boys have long stopped their duel and watch with tightening faces the arrival of the party heading to the Wall. Without word, Robb and Jon turn to each other and embrace fiercely, their heads pressed into each other's shoulders, red hair mingling into black.

"I will miss you, brother," says Robb, as he draws back from the embrace, clasping Jon's arm still. "Keep yourself safe. I'll see you next when you're all in black."

"Farewell, Stark," says Jon, his eyes glittering.

"And you, Snow," says Robb, his smile trembling only slightly.

Sansa steps forward and does a little curtsey as Jon approaches their father before she turns on her heel and heads back toward her chamber. Adela watches her go with faint disbelief before turning back to watch the farewells. She cannot hear the words her uncle murmurs to Jon but the light on the boy's face is enough and he accepts his father's embrace with a smile.

"You may not have my name, but you have my blood," says Eddard, clearer now as he looks down at Jon. "You are a Stark of Winterfell, and you will do this house proud."

"I'll look after Needle!" cries Arya, hurtling from Adela's side and leaping into Jon's arms.

He laughs as he hugs her hard, tears shining in his eyes. "You'll come visit me soon?" he says to her. "Promise?"

"Promise," she pipes back desperately as he sets her down.

Finally, he comes before Adela, his stare hard on hers. She feels the sob begin to leap back into her throat, the tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. She swallows hard.

"Well, Jon Snow," she whispers. "You're off to become a man."

"I'm off to make a name for us bastards," he murmurs in reply. He takes her hand hanging uselessly by her hip and carries it to his lips, his dark eyes melting into hers. "My lady."

At this, the sob breaks loose and she throws her arms around his neck. He holds her close to him, oblivious of the stares Robb and Ned are giving them. She feels his heart through all the layers of boiled leather and fur he wears, feels the beat strong and sure against her own. She grips onto him for a moment more before ripping herself away, the tears dried now on her cheeks.

"Get on that horse, Jon Snow," she whispers furiously, her smile small and sad. "Your destiny awaits."

He smiles at her and with only one backward glance at all of them gathered in the cold of the courtyard he strides over to his horse and mounts it. The party moves off finally, and Arya comes to lean against Adela once more, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Ghost bounds out of nowhere and comes to a stop at the gates as Jon Snow halts for a final time to look back at them all. Her eyes take in the red stare of Ghost with a silent smile before she raises her gaze. _Dark eyes, dark, dark eyes_.

"I'll be seeing you, Snow," calls Jon, raising his arm once, before he turns and disappears through the gate, the white shadow of Ghost following at the horse's side.

Ж


	7. Southern City

Ж

First Sansa is introduced to the burning eyes of the queen who sits ponderously on a gold-edged throne, bright red skirts spilling from her lap like blood. Her milk-white fingers tap the arms of the throne listlessly as Eddard Stark, still dusty from his travels from Winterfell, summons his eldest daughter forward. Above the pretty flurry of pale green silk, the girl's face is serene and beautiful, as always, pale skin and auburn hair flowing in shining waves to her waist, her steps deft as a dancer's and her curtsey elegant as she dips before the throne.

"Lady Sansa," says Queen Cersei, her tone more pleasant than her eyes. "The beautiful Lady Sansa . . . you will do well at court, I am sure. See that you attend properly to your dances and graces – and remember as future queen you must always _smile_." She bares her perfect white teeth in demonstration to the girl and extends her hands, one gripping her wine cup. Sansa steps back at the queen's nod and Eddard Stark presses forward the dark-haired girl at his other side. A small girl, barely up to his shoulder, dressed in exquisite blue silk, long black hair curling splendidly to her hips. "And you," the queen murmurs, meeting the girl's steady blue gaze. "Who is this, Lord Stark?"

Eddard bows his head stiffly to the queen, noticing with dismay the enticed stares of the milling courtiers surrounding her, and with anger the look of pure lust in the Kingslayer's evergreen glare.

"Adela Stark, Your Grace," says Eddard, his voice reluctant. "My niece, daughter of my brother Benjen Stark."

Stepping forward from her uncle's side, Adela is a small trail of blue blooming in a court of blood-red garb. Her steps are easy and light, though her heart is pounding, and she can manage only the smallest bending of her knees as she comes to a stop before the great trembling throne. She keeps her head up, and her blue eyes drift from the queen, to the young prince, and to the golden-haired stranger she recognises beside the throne, before flitting back again.

"Ah, the raven," purrs the queen with wine-stained lips. "I've heard many tales of you. Your beauty precedes you – as do all the men wanting to fuck you." There is a collective gasp from the crowd. Eddard pales, but Adela's eyes do not flinch from the queen's. "Daughter of Benjen Stark . . . but who was your mother, little raven?"

Adela's chin rises and her stare glows with quiet defiance as all around the throne room falls silent.

"My mother was a whore, I have no shame in that," she answers, her voice quiet and clear in this hall of kings. "Many men love many whores." As she says it in that velvet tone of hers, her bright blue eyes mark out the empty Iron Throne behind the queen and her meaning is clear. There is another murmured gasp. Queen Cersei's eyes look fit to explode. Adela watches as the milk-white fingers turn red as they grip hard onto the arms of the little throne. The room fills with nervous chat, and Adela feels a growing sense of unease. _Stupid girl_, she chides herself, _so full of self-pride and pomp you've offended the queen before she's even said your name_. Hidden from prying eyes, Adela's fingers knot nervously into her skirts, but her gaze remains clear and confident.

Finally there is a burst of laughter from a few of members of the court who can hold their amusement no longer and it soon grows until the hall is full of the sound.

Queen Cersei dismisses the Starks with a look of fire and a flick of her wrist and Adela can barely stop herself from skipping through the crowd and running into the shelter of the great stone corridor flanking the hall. She leans against the nearest wall she finds, feeling the coolness of the pink stone seep through her silken dress. Her chest rises frantically with her panicked breath and takes several moments to slow. When she looks up from her slippered feet, she meets the reassuring grey eyes of her uncle.

"Well played, little one," he says, mirthlessly but with a smile. "But try not to embarrass the queen so publicly again – she is not one to trifle with." He looks about him and straightens up. "I have business to attend to, the king is due back from his hunt soon. Sansa is back with the septa, but I haven't seen Arya since we arrived. Think she's wandered off exploring." He smiles again, a glimmer of humour returning to his eyes. "Perhaps instead of embroidering with the septa, you can try to find Arya for me."

She nods with a wide smile, thankful for his dismissal of her from the sedentary lessons of the septa. She turns without word and finds her way out of the corridor and into the warm air of dusk blanketing a cobbled courtyard. The sky is pink above the Red Keep, a handful of stars already visible. They arrived in King's Landing only a few hours ago and the heat still feels unbearable. The long sleeves of her gown shift uncomfortably at her wrists and the skirts trail behind her as she climbs a set of stone steps she finds at the edge of the courtyard, rising from the suffocating warmth of the cobbles to the cooler reaches of air atop the keep's turrets. She is breathing heavily by the time she mounts the last of the steps and walks out along the red stone of the landing. She feels as if she is mere feet away from the scattering of stars overhead in the darkening sky, and from her viewpoint the sprawling city becomes a swathe of multicoloured brick and stone and wood with lamps of the streets and distant windows beginning to sparkle like fallen stars. She looks distantly from the red walls ringing the entire city to the glitter of the water and beyond. She wonders if the gods are keeping their promise, wonders what is happening at the other end of the empire, in the snow-swept lands of the north.

"I had heard you were returning south with us," comes a voice from behind her.

She turns sharply, surprised by the sudden footfall and murmur from the steps. She watches as the golden-haired stranger comes toward her. Tall, broad-shouldered, as handsome close as he was from a distance. His eyes are emeralds against the gold of his hair. She takes in the white of his armour, the pallid woollen cloak draping his shoulders. _A beautiful ghost of gold and white_. Her eyes light on his now.

"You are with the Kingsguard?" she asks, her voice rising timidly from her throat.

"I am," he answers, smiling with easy grace and coming to stand beside her. "Beautiful from up here, isn't it?" They turn as one to watch the sky darkening over King's Landing.

"Yes," she says quietly. "And you cannot catch the city's stench."

At this he laughs. A rich laugh, deep and sure, and one she recognises from the throne room earlier. She regards him coyly with a sideways glance.

"It must be a change from your cold northern castles," he remarks. "But Lady Stark seems to think Sansa needs educating in the ways of the south."

"There is little in the way of southern education in the north," says Adela, narrowing her eyes slightly. "Sewing and embroidery, perhaps, and a few lessons from an old septa. But when it comes to singing the hymns of the Seven or knowing what colour gown to wear . . . that I cannot do."

"But if I asked you to loose an arrow into a target fifty yards away," he interjects, his eyes liquid green in the almost extinguished light of the sun. "Or to skin a hare, or to fight a man twice your size and win, why then – "

"Why then I would be seen as being _very_ educated," she finishes, a little smile tugging at her lips. "I have been raised in the way of the north . . . Sansa has not. Catelyn saw to that. Whilst Sansa played with her dolls, and stitched sweet kerchiefs, I was out racing horses with the Stark boys, or sparring with Jon Snow. The only way the townsfolk could tell me apart from them was by my hair." Adela looks off into the horizon. _Sansa's as wolf-blooded as any of the Starks, though_, Adela adds to herself, _she just hides it well_.

He exhales softly in answer. "Yet you are both here to learn," he says, looking down at his hands before studying her profile against the setting sun. "When do you begin your lessons?"

His question hangs unanswered for a while between them as overhead the sun's light finally gives way to the dark blue night's sky and the glow of a gold-tinged moon. The air grows colder and begins to flutter through Adela's dark hair. Her lips part.

"It's a fragile universe we live in," she murmurs, her soft voice fracturing the silence. "A strange one too." She looks up at the sky, her eyes reflecting a spangle of stars. "Just think of it. I often do. Just think what makes up our world, and all the little worlds in between that we call our own. The snow and ice of the north, the sand and heat of the south. All the blood and fire in between. The fractures and factions, the simple lives of farmers, the crumbling towers of Castle Black. The extravagance of court, the poverty of the isles out at sea." Her brows knit together. "All in one kingdom, all in one little world."

He makes to reply, but falls fast into silence as the raven-haired girl turns silently and descends from the turret down the narrow stone steps, her footfall muffled by her slippers, and disappears back into the Red Keep. He turns back to starlit city and closes his eyes.

"A strange world, indeed," he murmurs.

Ж


	8. Blood and Fire

Ж

The castle is quiet as Adela makes her way from the chamber she shares with Sansa and tiptoes down the tower's steps. She is careful to tread lightly, to breathe quietly, as she passes by first Arya's chamber and then the huge oaken door leading onto Ned's rooms. She reaches the bottom of the stairs and eases the main door of the Tower of the Hand silently open, and shuts it behind her with only the smallest of creaks. Outside finally, she gives a sigh of relief and begins her way through the various courtyards and galleys and passageways.

As she continues on her path, the pre-dawn chill seeps through her dress and she tries to fool herself into thinking she's back at Winterfell, barefoot on fresh-fallen frost, surrounded by snow-capped hills and the sound of direwolves. Instead she finds herself dreading the heat that will surely rise with the sun in this southern land that is hot as hell, and with it the noise and stench of a city bursting to the riverbanks. _A week in King's Landing_, she thinks, _and it still feels like I've been here only a day_. The court is extravagant, the food and wine and graces excellent, but she finds the tedium of courtiers' conversation, the droning of nobles, the petty complaints of the queen's ladies fit to make her scream. _It is all so false, so, so false, this game of thrones and greed_. She sees it everywhere, this mistrustful greed, in the snatching of coin from palm to palm, in the glittering, insincere looks of men of lesser houses, hears it in the whispered schemes hushed urgently as she passes by. The feeling of unease she felt on the first day has since never left her. Even now, she feels as if the prickle of half a hundred eyes are on her, watching every placing of her feet upon the flagstones, detailing every tilt of her head and turn of her palm. Every now and then as she turns her gaze sharply over her shoulder she thinks she sees the glimmer of a man's face. _A beautiful ghost of gold and white_.

She sees the tops of trees begin to appear, elm and alder and black cottonwood, and she knows she has found the place she seeks. The godswood of the Red Keep, a place she'd been surprised to hear of. As she steps into the quiet gloom of the sacred grove, she feels her heart at last begin to find a little peace. The leaves scattered across the dirt beneath her feet are damp from the early morning dew, untouched by the tiny bursts of sunlight managing to pierce through the canopy overhead. She finds the faintest impression of a path and follows it along the forest floor. Already, she feels the air around her beginning to warm even in the shelter of the godswood and curses the heat.

Abruptly the path ends and she looks up from her feet and thoughts to see the great heart tree of oak towering above her, encircled with smokeberry vines and drifting leaves. She sinks to her knees before it and then sits up against the huge trunk, tracing the lines of the bark and looking deeply at the unfamiliar face of the tree. Harsher lines than the weirwood at Winterfell, and with dark sap seeping from the eyes like blood.

"Even you know this place is forged with blood and fire," she whispers, half to herself, and half to the Old Gods. Only the soft sound of the Blackwater and the smallest murmur of breeze care to reply. "I wonder if it will meet its end the same way."

She leans her head back against the oak, and closes her eyes. Her mind dances with a thousand thoughts. She remembers distantly the angered words of Jon Snow, the black look of his eyes when they'd argued about their mothers, and suddenly it all rushes back. She remembers her old town near the Wall, thinks of the dainty figure of her mother with blackened eyes and a leering bodice, dirty fingers, black ringlets circling her waist, scrabbling hands of men and that heavy, unpleasant scent of coin. Adela's heart quickens as she hears the cry of her mother shatter throughout her mind, the ragged cheers of northmen, and the commotion of an inn and a time she'd like to forget. She feels the cry start in her throat, feels her shoulders begin to shake, and tears begin to snake down her cheeks. _Oh, Mama, my poor, poor mother_. She longs then for nothing more than the dark eyes she's craved since she left Winterfell, for the quiet look of understanding no one else can give.

A squawk from the branches above her makes her eyes shoot open and she looks up to see the dark silhouette of a bird. She squints against the shaft of sunlight painting the oak's leaves and watches as the bird makes its way along one branch before swooping down to walk about the ground by her feet and she notices the thin band of white about its left talon. Its dark eyes shine like beads in the gloom.

"Oh, raven of the north," she whispers as she and the bird watch each other quietly. "You're far from home."

Ж


End file.
